My Cheeks Were Red

I stopped into Victoria's Secret the other day. It should have been fun. I mean, what's not to like about buying yourself something a little bit fun and frivolous?

Well, you know that classic nightmare that people have, about standing in front of a large audience, dressed in nothing but their underwear? I would argue that the real-life version of that nightmare is standing in a crowded lingerie store and having a clerk ask, "So how did that thong work out for you?"

Really, what's the right answer to that question? What came to my mind was, "None of your damned business." But she was just being helpful, doing what she was trained to do, which apparently involves making a grown woman squirm with embarrassment. And sadly, as much as I wanted to turn and flee, I really needed her to tell me where to find a matching bra.

I managed to grind out the necessary words, only to have to decide, out loud of course, while flanked on one side by a 19-year-old whose thong probably worked out great for her, and on the other by an entire family buying a bathrobe for Grandma, whether I preferred the demi or the push-up style.

Sad to say, I've managed to reach middle age without having the first clue how to answer that question. So I had to go try on some bras, but only after the clerk whipped out a measuring tape right there in the middle of the store, wrapped it around me, and then told me and everyone else my measurements. 

I was reminded of a time years ago, when I was working as a part-time sales clerk in a department store, and I had to cover the lingerie department for an hour. A nervous husband approached me for help. He wanted to buy something nice for his wife, but he couldn't remember her size. He thought I was about the same size, though, and so he asked me my bra size. There are very few situations in which that is an OK thing for a man to ask a woman, and this wasn't one of them. I waited a beat, but he was too far gone with nerves to see what was wrong with his question. Lucky for the guy I felt sorry for him, and I helped him out, without telling him my size, but without making him feel any worse either.

He should have just followed me into Victoria's Secret. He would have had his answer. Hell, everyone in that store now has the answer. And I knew exactly how he felt, because I swear I felt exactly like a poor, clueless man, trying to buy underwear for a woman.

I don't know if most women are born knowing how to do this kind of shopping, or if their mothers or older sisters teach them the ropes, or if I missed a critical day in school. I'm pretty sure it helps to drink first.

At least I came away knowing everything I need to know about these matters. Really. Ask me anything. For example, I know enough about bras now that I can say definitively that "demi" is just code for "padded" and "push-up" is code for "very very padded." I mean seriously padded. You could easily use one of those babies for a throw pillow. A very expensive, lacy throw pillow that looks like a bra, but still.

Blushing smiley face image from Bruno Maia, IconTexto